Lap of Luxury
by milverton
Summary: PWP. Sherlock rather likes when John's in his lap. John comes to find that he likes it too.


Three weeks into John's new and absurd relationship with his flatmate-cum-best friend, Sherlock tries something new. Something new that he's decided on trying all his own. With no warning relayed to John at all.

It first happens when John's getting a novel from the bookshelf and starts heading toward the kitchen. John never quite makes it to kitchen because Sherlock reaches out, grabs John's waist and manhandles him into his lap.

John falls gracelessly onto Sherlock and Sherlock wraps his arms tightly and securely around John's stomach. The novel falls to the floor, forgotten. John flails and indignantly elbows Sherlock in the ribs over and over. Sherlock is tenacious and does not give up the fight easily, just tightens his grip around John.

John eventually manages to free himself and stand on his own two feet. John whips around and shouts, _"What the fuck is your problem?"_

Sherlock silently smoothes the wrinkles from his trousers and looks up at John, unperturbed. "I want you to sit in my lap." John opens then closes his mouth, at a loss of words. "It'll be pleasing for me," Sherlock says matter-of-factly. As if it's an obvious thing that John should know. And, almost, as if John's feelings on the matter don't count!

John looks up to the ceiling for guidance that he knows he will never get. He looks down at Sherlock and shakes his head disapprovingly. "I really think you need to learn some etiquette, Sherlock."

Sherlock looks slightly bemused, cocks his head to the side. "There's…etiquette for lap-sitting?"

"Yeah, you know, actually, there is! I never thought I'd be having this conversation, but here we are! You can't just reach out and grab me whenever the fuck you want!"

Sherlock frowns. "But we're in a relationship. A physical relationship. You are usually very receptive when I—"

"How many relationships have you been in before?" John interrupts desperately.

"Mm. One and a half."

"I'm not even going to ask what on god's green earth 'a half' of a relationship is. Look, Sherlock. You need to ask me if you want me to do something…to me. I want to, uh, not feel attacked, you know?"

"Fine," Sherlock concedes. A moment passes in silence and he adds, "John, will you sit in my lap?"

John barks out a laugh. "Yeah, okay, you kinky bastard." Sherlock reaches out and grabs him.

\\

John finds that he likes Sherlock's lap very much.

Sherlock roughly pulls him down and they situate themselves so that John's back is pressed to Sherlock's front, and his legs are hooked over Sherlock's spread thighs. Sherlock touches John all over like he's starved, presses his clothed erection into his arse, then shoves his hands into his pants and tosses him off.

John loves Sherlock's lap.

"Holy fuck," John gasps at the ceiling after coming in his pants and on Sherlock's hand-in-his-pants.

Sherlock is cursing under his breath, John notices as he comes down from the high. "I wouldn't mind being in your lap more often, actually. Feel free to grab me whenever you want from now on."

"John." Sherlock wriggles uncomfortably underneath him. "If you'd be so _kind?"_

John notices the erection pressed into his arse. "Since you asked so nicely." He unhooks his legs and sits on the tiny bit of chair between the gap of Sherlock's thighs, grips the arms of the chair and slowly ruts against Sherlock's groin. He undulates forward and backward, pressing harder into the erection with every wave. Sherlock groans behind him and John can feel the vibration of his voice in his bones.

It takes a few tries and John gets fatigued but Sherlock eventually comes, biting at the back of John's shirt to muffle his cry.

John stands up, cringingly removes his trousers, then pants. Sherlock is deliciously disheveled and he's sunken deep into the chair. His expression is smug as he watches John fold his soiled clothing. "Whenever I want?"

"Whenever you want," John says with a tiny smile, draping his trousers over his shoulder. He turns and heads toward the stairs. John wonders if he'd just made a bad decision, giving Sherlock free reign. Doesn't matter, he supposes.

He'll probably enjoy it anyway.

\\

Sherlock's sprawled out on the sofa and John wants to watch telly whilst sitting on the sofa, so he stands over Sherlock and says, "Move your legs."

"No."

"Move them."

"Make me."

"All right," John says, and sits right on Sherlock's knees. "Such comfortable boney knees you have," John says joyfully, wiggling his arse. Sherlock opens his legs slightly so John falls through. Sherlock reaches out and pulls John into his chest, possessively wrapping himself around John with his long, constricting limbs.

John would have never expected Sherlock to desire a cuddle on the sofa. John's very pleased by the fact and snuggles into Sherlock.

However, John finds that the pleased feeling does not last.

After John watches a near hour of telly, Sherlock making snide remarks about the singers and keeping John securely in place, he has to have a piss.

He tries to get up, but Sherlock forces him back down. "Sherlock," he warns.

"You are not leaving. I don't want you to leave."

"Would you like me to piss on you?"

Sherlock's voice is mocking when he says, "I know that many people dabble in that and find it stimulating but I'd really rather not—"

"Oh for the love of-I don't want to have to hurt you, so just let me up."

"You said 'whenever I want.'" Instead of obeying, Sherlock's hand pushes John's t-shirt up, rubs soothingly at his stomach, then inches lower, lower—

John grips Sherlock's wandering hand, throws it to the side and breaks out of the Sherlockian limb confines. John shakes a finger at Sherlock. "You're bad, Holmes."

Sherlock shrugs and stretches like a cat. John sighs, turns and heads toward the bathroom, smiling to himself.

\\

They're in Greg's office sans Greg. Sherlock is pacing to and fro and John is leaning against Greg's desk, watching. "He's supposed to be here by now! He said he wrapped up that incredibly dull case 20 minutes ago!"

"Probably got stuck in traffic. It's rush hour."

"I need the information _now_ and Lestrade's the only one who'll give it to me. This is insufferable," Sherlock growls, pacing even faster.

"Just. Can you just sit down and relax. You're making me nauseous."

Sherlock's mobile vibrates and Sherlock stops in his tracks to read the text.

"Lestrade said fifteen minutes." Sherlock looks blankly down at the mobile for a few moments, then looks curiously at John. He smirks.

"All right," John says suspiciously. "What's that look for. I think I know that look."

Sherlock sweeps the room and makes sure every blind is closed, locks the door, then he turns the armless visitor's seat toward John and plops into it. He pats his thighs invitingly. "Come on, then. Hop on."

John's eyebrows fly up to his hairline. "Are you serious? In Greg's office?"

Sherlock taps his foot impatiently, unzips his trousers and pulls them down. "We only have 14 minutes now. You're wasting time. Get over here."

John looks down at the messy desk to see a picture of Greg's handsome twins grinning for the camera. John respectfully places the framed photograph face-down onto the desk, then starts to unbutton his jeans. "God. I'm so sorry Greg," John tells the desk solemnly.

"John!" Sherlock summons impatiently. John looks over to see Sherlock's whipped his cock out from his pants and he's stroking it absently, watching John with intent lust. That look makes John's cock gain interest as he steps out of his jeans, pauses. He already knows he's going to hell, so he decides to go all the way and removes his pants. John's cock shows even more interest when he straddles Sherlock's thighs, face-forward, and Sherlock's hands gravitate to cup his bare arse.

"Yeah, play with my arse." John leans back into Sherlock's hands indulgently. Sherlock massages his arsecheeks thoroughly and John reaches between them and grabs Sherlock's already-hard cock and strokes it.

Sherlock's eyes close blissfully. His finger slips between John's arsecheeks and rubs teasingly at the perineum as his other hand slowly jerks John off. John strokes Sherlock faster in gratitude and tries desperately not to make any sounds that would startle and/or offend anyone nearby.

Sherlock looks so relaxed and peaceful that John can't help but lean down and press a soft kiss to his slack mouth. Sherlock's eyes fly open, presses his finger against the perineum one last time then huffs out, "get up and turn around." John obliges. Sherlock pulls down his pants, widens his legs then pulls John down into the gap of his thighs. Sherlock slips his pre-cum slicked cock between John's arsecheeks. "O-oh god," John hisses.

"I love you in my lap. Feels marvelous. I always want you here," Sherlock babbles.

John reaches back and spreads his arsecheeks apart, then presses them together so they engulf Sherlock's cock. He starts to rub his arse into Sherlock's groin, bouncing slightly, as Sherlock makes noises of satisfaction. John doesn't know how long he's sliding Sherlock's cock between his arsecheeks because all he knows at that moment and is thinking about is how _good_ it feels. Sherlock says, hoarsely, "Five minutes," and John comes back to reality.

"Are you fucking kidding me," John says, frustrated, suddenly wishing he'd never agreed to this. John moves away from Sherlock, finishes himself off while watching Sherlock do the same.

"Two minutes," Sherlock says.

"Fuck." John struggles into his pants, then his jeans. He tries to calm himself down, his heart is beating fast.

John does up the zip of his jeans, then the button, leans back against the desk as casually as possible. John hopes he isn't too flushed or too obviously well-fucked, and looks over to see that Sherlock appears completely unruffled. Sherlock smirks at him. John glares at him.

Someone knocks on the door.

Sherlock turns the chair back to facing the desk, stands and opens the door.

Greg looks up at Sherlock with a frown. "Why was the door locked?" He steps into the room and nods at John. John nods back in greeting.

"Because people kept telling us that we couldn't be here, wouldn't believe me when I said I was waiting for you. I locked the door so they couldn't bother us anymore," Sherlock lies.

"Shut the blinds too, huh?" Greg says, sniffing the air then raking his inspective gaze over the blinds.

"They were very insistent," Sherlock lies again.

"Right," Greg says sarcastically. John prays that Greg isn't a good detective, just for today.

Greg gets behind his desk, plops into his chair and sighs deeply. He looks tired. He glances at Sherlock, glances at John, then notices the face-down photograph. John steels himself.

Greg reaches over and silently places the photograph back into its proper stance. He looks at the photograph with a tiny smile for several admiring moments, then flicks his gaze up at John accusingly.

John doesn't know what to do, so he smiles weakly at him.

"Oh for the love of god!" Greg groans.

"What's wrong?" John asks, and he knows it sounds guilty.

"I can't believe you two. Especially you, John."

John sputters, "I don't—"

"That's just _not on_, mates. Not on! Get out. Now. Both of you," Greg says, dismissing them with a wave of his hand.

"God. I'm sorry Greg," John blurts, face flushing.

"No!" Sherlock booms, rushing over to the desk, gripping the edge of it and leaning toward Greg. "I've been waiting for the past 35 minutes for you, Lestrade, so I can get my damned files!"

"Yeah? Well looks like you found a lovely way to pass the time!"

John cringes. Sherlock fumes. "Please. Like you've never gotten off in someone's office."

Greg gapes at Sherlock, then laughs disbelievingly. "No! Actually, I haven't! Why the hell would I want to do that? That's disrespectful!"

"Get over it. It was harmless fun, Lestrade. Harmless. Just give me the files!" Sherlock shouts.

Greg barks out a laugh, stands, removes a key from his pocket, opens a drawer, reaches inside and throws a key at Sherlock's face. Hard. "There! Get it yourself! Now get out!"

Sherlock picks up the key from the floor and John hastily pulls Sherlock out of the office.

\\

As Sherlock looks for the files, John says, "Well, that was terrible. I was honestly hoping he'd have been a shite detective for the day."

"Yes, well. I suppose he didn't use the CCTV. Good for him."

John's grabs the lapels of Sherlock's coat roughly and pulls him close. "What did you say?"

"Lestrade has CCTV in his office now. Installed it a few weeks ago after one of the Yarders was caught stealing from his office."

John grips Sherlock's lapels so hard that his knuckles go white. "Nice. Okay. You didn't tell me this because—"

"Because I don't care?" Sherlock challenges.

"I'm going to kill you with my bare hands."

Sherlock pouts mockingly. "Aw, but not before you've had a chance to ride me in Mycroft's plush leather office chair."

John lets go of Sherlock and huffs out a laugh at Sherlock's continued pouty expression. "Yeah. Actually. You know what, I think the killing can wait."


End file.
